She’s become a permanent fixture
in her own home. Comfortable and cozy.
Not lonely, and
determined that nobody else will be either.
But there is a bump in her road, and
a chink in her resolve.
A chasm, built of laziness
she has come to embrace.
Isn’t idleness inherent
in permanent fixtures?
Deep inside her is a plea she turns a deaf ear to:
the low howl of the lonely.
And she wonders why she writes her poem
in third person.
© Marie Elena Good, 2020